A Case of the Vapors
by sbgrrl
Summary: There was never really a good time to faint, but some times were a little bit worse than others. The problem was, he never knew when he was going to collapse into a limp pile on the floor.


(Comment fic from LJ!)

**A Case of the Vapors**

Dean Winchester wasn't surprised when he opened his eyes and saw blue skies and fluffy clouds. He also wasn't surprised when his brother's impishly grinning face and the concerned ones of the two middle-aged folks they had been interviewing appeared above him. He sighed, swore and scrambled to his feet. He didn't feel any new bruises forming, which was about the only blessing in this scenario. Shooting a look to Sam that indicated he should keep his wisecracks to himself, he stalked to the car and left Sam to create whatever story he damn well wanted to and wrap things up with the Rebstocks.

To date, he figured he'd hit the dirt about a hundred times and endured a knock to the back of his head, a scraped elbow, bruised knees and a sizeable cut on his chin. None of the injuries had been life threatening, and he knew he was reasonably lucky to have gotten off so lightly. Hell, the wounds didn't even do much damage to his pride. What got Dean was the way all the injuries had occurred.

It would be one thing if he were just passing out. Men passed out from time to time, especially hunters, usually as a result of immense, masculine pain. But no, whatever jokester had cursed him had him first coming down with a case of the vapors, swooning and then fainting. Like a nineteenth century _woman_ wearing a too-tight corset on a sweltering day. Sam told him that once he'd even lifted the back of one hand to his forehead before it happened. Dean was almost certain Sam was lying his lying little face off about that and he refused to take the bait. He'd never admit that even after a week he still tried to think of when he might have done that, because, after all, he wasn't absolutely certain his brother was lying.

What brought on a fainting spell? Apparently just about anything. He never knew when he was going to collapse into a limp pile on the floor. Dean was pretty sure that this latest incident had been caused by an unsightly piece of broccoli wedged in between Mr. Rebstock's front teeth. Gross. He wrinkled his nose, slouched and leaned his head against the seat.

"You okay?" Sam asked, barely holding back a grin as he climbed behind the wheel.

The final insult to Dean's injury had been the revocation of driving privileges, two weeks ago after he'd _lost consciousness_ on the way to the Dairy Shack in Nowheresville, Ohio when a black cat crossed the street in front of him. Baby was his car and he wasn't fit to drive her, and yet his affliction wasn't important enough to deal with ASAfuckingP. As soon as this case was done, he was going to chain Sam to the laptop until he found a remedy. No more poltergeists. No more demons. No more _anything_ until Dean could go a day without becoming one with the pavement, carpet, grass or floor.

"Aces," Dean said.

He wasn't gonna ask what cockamamie story Sam had concocted about Dean ending up flat on his back in the Rebstocks' yard. He didn't want to know. Sam was getting too damned proficient at the ridiculous stories.

"You confirm it?"

"Yep," Sam said. "Should be a simple salt and burn of Mrs. Rebstock's recently deceased and crotchety father, Bill Zondervan. The guy had a serious vendetta against local Girl Scout Troop #885. Apparently he had a mint allergy. Toward the end he was suffering dementia. He thought the girls trying to sell him Thin Mints were actually trying to murder him."

"You're not funny."

"I'm not trying to be. All the families reporting break-ins have seven-year-old girls in Girl Scout Troop #885."

Dean shot a skeptical look at his brother, seeing only earnestness in Sam's eyes. Sweet baby Jesus dipped in batter and fried on a stick, Sam really wasn't joking. Dean guessed that would explain why the major complaint was of someone busting into freezers and decimating box after box of Thin Mints. No physical harm had come to any of the kids, but as soon as the cookies were gone it wasn't a stretch to think the spirit would up his game.

"Where's he buried?"

"Oak Grove Cemetery, on the north edge of town."

They had a few hours to kill before sundown. Dean's stomach growled. Without words, Sam navigated the car to the small diner they'd eaten in twice since arriving in town. Little acts of kindness like this were the only thing keeping Dean from wanting to hurt Sam for letting him suffer this undignified curse as long as he had. He gave Sam a small smile and got out of the car. Three steps to the diner door, though, Dean thought about what Sam had said about Bill Zondervan. Recently deceased. Oh, shit. That meant their evening was going to be really, really foul. He felt woozy.

Overcome with unbidden images of putrefying corpses, Dean heard Sam calling out to him as if from a great distance as he took a header onto the unforgiving sidewalk.

*

The graze on his left cheekbone from the close encounter with cement throbbed with every one of Dean's heartbeats. There was really only room for one of them to dig at a time without crossing shovels and bumping elbows, so he was taking the top half of the grave and Sam would have the dubious honor of finishing it out and opening the casket. That and the thought that soon they'd be done with this and on to finding a way to break the fainting curse drove him to dig hard.

"Hey man, take it slow. There's no rush," Sam said. "I don't need you going out on me again."

Dean couldn't see his brother, but he could hear the smile in his voice. He'd suspected for a while that Sam was purposely finding "more important cases" to deal with, and that he hadn't really been spending much of his spare time researching Dean's predicament. He was done playing the chump. No more swooning for Sam's amusement.

"Can it, Sam, or this shovel's going someplace the sun don't shine."

Sam chuckled. He backed off, though, not saying a peep when Dean wavered slightly from the exertion and had to stop to keep himself from keeling. He even jumped in and took over early, boosting Dean out and ordering him a good ten feet back. Too close and there would be no way Dean could escape a faint when the casket was opened.

Truthfully, Dean thought that despite the teasing Sam wanted this over quickly. There were too many blunt objects for Dean to collapse on in a graveyard, the potential for accidental injury too great. If he knew that, then Sam knew it and he wasn't oblivious to the fleeting glances his little brother kept giving him. He stayed carefully away from any large monuments.

After twenty minutes of Sam hefting dirt, the sound of the shovel hitting the metal casket filled the quiet night. Unfortunately, so did two other things – the hooting of an owl and the ungodly shriek of Mr. Zondervan arriving to protect his rotting corpse.

"Eep," Dean heard himself say, startled by both the owl and the spirit.

Everything faded to gray, and then black just moments after his knees hit the carefully manicured and plush cemetery grass.

Coming to who knew how long after the initial descent, Dean was aware of three things: grass tickled at this nose, Zondervan's ghost was still screaming, and now Sam was screaming too. Any woozy recovery time he'd normally have taken vanished. He scrambled to his hands and knees, wildly looking up just in time to see Sam flung into a stone obelisk and crumpling into a heap.

"Sam," he said, getting to his feet.

"Get the grave, I'm okay," Sam said faintly, already stirring. His movements were uncoordinated and sluggish. He got to one knee before he flew through the air again, emitting a sharp cry.

His brother was not okay. Dean raced for Sam, making it only a few steps before he joined the trapeze act. The High Flying Winchester Brothers, now appearing at the Barnum & Bailey Circus. The breath was knocked out of him, and he almost experienced a legitimate, manly pass-out. But he saw Sam flailing about and that pulled him out of it. Nobody got to beat Sam up but him. It was time to engage the distraction tactic so Sam would be out of harm's way long enough to finish Zondervan off.

"Hey asshole," Dean shouted. Well, tried to. It was a pathetic effort, all slurs. "I've got a box of Thin Mints over here with your name on it."

It did the trick. Sam stopped flailing mid-air, tossed aside like yesterday's news. Mr. Happy Ghost let out an enraged howl and gunned for Dean, just like he'd intended. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam fumbling at the salt and lighter fluid. Even dazed, it should only take his brother a minute. Compared to weeks of embarrassing faints, getting pulped by a ghost was a refreshing change of pace. Dean flew left, Dean flew right. He conked his head on an urn-shaped monument and saw stars.

And then with a whoosh and a flare of bright orange light, Zondervan's too-fresh corpse smoldered like it should and the spirit was sent packing. Dean dropped onto the ground, shaking. He lifted his weary head in search of Sam, to make sure he was in one piece.

Sam stood next to the heavily smoking grave, wobbling ever so slightly. His face was set in a horrified grimace, blood coating the whole right side of it. He hunched over as if to protect sore ribs or maybe an upset stomach. He turned unsteadily, eyes squinting into the dark in search of something. He spotted Dean and gave him a weak grin.

"Well, that was…" Sam said. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and he fell into a dead faint.

"Ha," Dean said, somewhat vindicated by Sam's fainting even though it was technically a manly pass-out.

But then he caught a whiff of Zondervan and fainted too.


End file.
